


Fugue

by mechawaka



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dishonored AU, F/M, Non-Explicit Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechawaka/pseuds/mechawaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Empress Deshanna Lavellan has been murdered, and her only daughter and heir to the throne, Ellana Lavellan, is on the run. She knows that it was the Empress's closest advisers that ordered her assassination, and she'll reclaim the throne in any way possible. A mysterious godlike entity has granted her powerful gifts to help her along that path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fugue

The common folk called it a celebration of the new year; a break from the rigorous tenets of the Strictures and the tedium of daily life in Dunwall. The pious turned their noses up, condemning the festivities as wild heresy - at least publicly. The truth, as any Overseer would tell it, was that the Fugue Feast was neither good nor evil. It was simply time outside of time, a stretch of days between the old year and the new that were not recorded by any authoritative entity. Criminals would go unpunished, humanitarians unrewarded; those who wished to act anonymously wore masks, and, considering the lawless nature of the event, most did.

Ellana ran a silk-gloved finger over the ridges of her own mask, styled after the face of a red fox. What was the meaning behind this particular animal’s image? What message had that pretty young nobleman been trying to convey before some Fugue-frenzied monster dumped his body in a gutter? Such a fair wisp of a boy, sprawled conveniently at the mouth of an alley, showcasing all the darkest parts of a fox’s fate. At least in death he could provide an opportunity for Ellana to make better use of the creature’s guile.

_And I did_ , she thought wryly as she sank her blade into a stranger’s neck and then freed it with a visceral pop; the man fell to the ground with a dull thud, crossbow skittering across the wooden boards. The mask had allowed her to move with impunity through the streets, and not even the estate guards had thought to question yet another gowned noblewoman amongst the crowds.

This particular stranger was different, though. Inside a locked room, crouched quietly, crossbow trained on the open balcony. He’d been  _waiting_  - so intently, in fact, that when Ellana threw open the doors behind him, his tightly coiled muscles hadn’t allowed for adequate reaction time to defend himself.

He smelled of sweat and revelry, of the expensive Serkonan oils in his hair and the luxurious perfumes that clung to his jacket. Underneath all that, however, she caught the humid damp of the sewers. The sweet rot of the plague. Heavy boots beneath the fitted hems of his trousers, caked with mud; an intruder at the party, then, like her. But why? Ellana crushed the dead man’s wrist unceremoniously with the toe of her shoe, swiping a bloodstained missive from his fingers.

_Deliver the heir alive and so will yours be delivered - A._

She snarled, crumpling the paper and stuffing it into one of the many hidden pockets of her layered skirt. Not just an intruder, then. A man blackmailed by the High Overseer himself to kidnap her.  _Alive._

“Of course. The last thing they want is another dead Empress.” Ellana didn’t turn at the sound of  _his_  voice, instead falling to one knee to rummage through the dead man’s pockets for a clue to his identity. She could see his descent from the shrine in her mind, though, like so many times before; elegant and composed, slightly amused, as he always was where mortals were concerned, yet detached. Jet black eyes boring into her as he approached. “The line of succession would get...messy.”

Bare feet padded across the plush carpet, unhurried, to stand before the would-be kidnapper. Ellana ignored his presence; a few minutes of silence, of unanswered jabs, and he would leave for more lively prospects. Another of the Marked, perhaps. One more suited to  _entertainment_.

She pulled a worn signet ring from a pouch at the dead man’s belt. Exiled nobility? Would explain the smell. Plague-touched? Ellana tilted the man’s chin up with the tip of her blade, then deftly sliced open his jacket, but found no skin discoloration. No plague. Then why him?

“If you just wanted a romp, he was more useful to you alive.” She could hear the smirk in his voice. All humor, her dark patron, all quiet wit that served to amuse himself and no others. As if all of humanity’s struggles were forever building toward a punchline only he could see. Ellana turned the ring over and over in the bluish electric lighting, supposing that she might not be far off the mark.

The Outsider paced around her in languid circles as she worked, and when she finally stood, he was in front of his shrine again - for dramatic effect, she was sure - with the ghostly purple glow of the Void surrounding him like a cloak. His gaze traveled the length of her body, slowly, taking in the finely tailored and slitted gown she’d stolen for this event, the golden curls that tumbled to the small of her back, the black stilettos with ribbons that wrapped up to her thighs; excessive for an assassin, he said without speaking. Conveyed it in the smug slant of his mouth. But there was also something else, a glimmer of appreciation in his enigmatic eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

They regarded each other quietly for a few heartbeats before Ellana spoke, in a low voice, “What do you want?”

His face cracked into an impish smile at finally gaining her attention, and he gestured to the draped silks and haphazardly flung ornaments that decorated the room in which they stood. “Only to celebrate the Fugue Feast with my favorite vengeful murderer.”

“No,” Ellana said in an immediate and dry monotone, then grabbed the dead man’s arms and dragged him to a shadowy corner of the room. She slid her blade carefully back into its sheath, concealed inside the emerald silk sleeve of her gown, and turned back to her unwelcome guest. “What do you  _really_  want?”

His lips twitched upward and he left the shrine again, circling her once more with light, measured steps. “I would say it is more what  _you_  want, little Empress,” he answered softly, using that nickname that made her grit her teeth and clench her gloved hands into fists. He chuckled at her discomfort, but then his eyes flicked to the ring she still tightly clutched. “Crossed staves entwined with ivy. A crest you do not recognize, or else you would be away already, dancing across the rooftops. Ah, I did not mean to offend.” He held up a thin hand when Ellana started toward the balcony and she paused, though her lips were pursed, her jaw clenched, “In fact, I quite enjoy the grace with which you utilize my gifts.”

She stepped toward him cautiously, looking for any sign of trickery in his face, but as always it was enigmatic, ageless, unyielding, those dark eyes absorbing all but giving nothing in return. “You’re talkative today,” she observed flatly, holding up the ring again. “I take it that  _you_  know the significance of this crest?”

He tilted his head but didn’t answer, instead walking to the balcony and grasping the iron railing with both hands. “Do you know how many souls are out there right now in the streets dancing, singing, celebrating their momentary freedom from the Abbey?” He turned his smooth head, cutting her a glance over his shoulder. “Thousands. Tens of thousands. And it is not the Strictures they invoke in their joy, nor the plague they fear, but  _me_ , on both counts.” He paused and inhaled deeply, as if he were drinking in the adulation and terror of the populace. “I  _do_  know the house to whom that ring belongs. And I will happily tell you,” he said, pivoting on the balcony so that his back leaned against the railing, “if you can find me again.” Ellana, sensing one of his infamous disappearing acts, lunged for him, but only smoky black tendrils swirled around the space he’d occupied.

She found her balance just before momentum could slam her into the cold iron bars; her eyes locked onto a building across the street, to a narrow ledge partially concealed from the streets below. Gathering luminescent threads of Void energy into her right hand, she weaved them into an instant path to the ledge, clenching her jaw against the familiar sensation of weightless, timeless  _force_ that came with the Outsider’s magic. One heartbeat later and her hand braced against uneven bricks instead of the railing, heels clacking down against stone instead of metal.  _That bastard,_ she thought, swallowing the queasy lump that formed in her throat every time she harnessed the mark’s power,  _that thrice-damned bastard._

Ellana shimmied nimbly down an air vent to reach the streets, where the citizens of Dunwall still mingled in droves, laughing and carousing in the golden light of evening. Yet blissfully unaware of the walls of light at each end of the district and the guards posted at every sewer entrance, she noticed. Revelers traveled freely among the lighted manor houses but passed the darkened, boarded up ones quietly, hurrying their steps. Ellana curled her lip but found herself sympathizing; to exist without the ever-growing threat of the plague, even for a short time, even if one is simply pretending, must be wonderful. Liberating.

She spotted one such condemned estate across the square, and, thinking it a likely place to begin her search, started toward it. Aristocrats often thought themselves above the laws of the Abbey, and before the plague, many of them sported private-but-open shrines to the Outsider in their homes as a testament to their invulnerability. When the rats came up from the sewers and the districts started falling one by one, though, the Overseers were quick to remove such  _liabilities._ The shrines usually remained, forgotten in the wake of frantic looting or purposefully ignored by superstitious servants.

_If you can find me again._ Why such a simple request? She paused beside a lamppost, staring hard at the street’s dirty flagstones as if they could provide the answer. He always appeared to the Marked when they approached his sacred places. A riddle, a game? It would not be the first time. Ellana felt for the ring, just to ensure its presence, and resumed her quest, winding through the horde as swiftly as she could.

She’d play his game for a lead on the High Overseer’s location. For another step toward identifying the scarred man who’d taken her mother’s life that day in the gazebo. Yes, any game. Any price.

Fingers brushed her elbow, a light request, and Ellana remembered from her training that this was a noble’s greeting. She turned toward it reluctantly, loath to be distracted from her goal but knowing that she must blend sufficiently with the celebrants to avoid attracting the suspicion of the guards, who were dispersed evenly throughout the crowds, watching for any sign that the plague had intruded upon the party.

“Good evening, my lady fox,” the man greeted her formally, his voice dark and delighted, and Ellana knew immediately that she wasn’t dealing with a citizen of Dunwall.  He’d discarded his weathered leather jacket and faded trousers in favor of a fine black cotton ensemble, to match the other aristocrats, yet his feet remained bare. He extended a thin hand to her, black eyes glittering behind the feral porcelain visage of a Tyvian wolf. “Won’t you honor me with a dance?”

Ellana took his hand without a second thought, overly aware of the guards who were watching their exchange with the curious awe of the lower class, and dipped into a practiced curtsey. “Of course, my lord wolf, and a merry Feast to you.” The proper words flowed naturally out of her mouth, and though she frowned at how easily the old niceties came back to her after all the months of squalor and death, it only seemed to entertain her partner further.

He pulled her into the square, where countless other couples spun to the lively but somewhat disorganized tune of an impromptu orchestra. “Ever the heiress, even with all that blood dripping from your pretty fingers, hmm?” He asked quietly, leading them into a slow step progression. She bit back a scathing retort, determined not to play into his hand. “Does it feel like being back in the Imperial court, surrounded by false allies?” One hand slid around her waist, pulling them closer together as they moved into a turn.

Ellana buried the urge to dig her nails into the fabric of his jacket, to rip off his mask and watch the reactions of the people of Dunwall when they learned that the Outsider quite literally walked among them. Instead she flattened her mouth into a tense line, watching him carefully for any sign of intent. Their games were played in the dark, in the flooded districts, the abandoned places where thieves and assassins need not hide. Why here, why now?

His face betrayed nothing, of course, but his body stiffened. Under her scrutiny, his victorious smirk collapsed to neutrality, eyes darting over her every motion. “Silence. I see. Must we distrust each other so?” His attempt at a smile turned into a yelp of pain when Ellana answered by way of a subtle stomp to his foot. “That is most unfair. I believe I have proven myself to be the  _only_  one you can trust.”

_By granting me a mysterious power with no explanation and then appearing occasionally to offer cryptic advice?_ Ellana allowed herself a small smile at his words, a tight upward curve that she hoped would convey her feelings on the matter sufficiently. Memories of that night rose unbidden; crawling through the gutters, just another rat among the sick and the displaced, soaked with rancid water and vomit and the blood of the Empress. Fitful sleep inside a ransacked pastry shop, huddled into a corner just to get above the waterline for a few hours. Enveloping violet fog, warmth for the first time in days, but the burning, that  _burning_ in her left hand - low laughter. Gentle touches but harshly spoken words;  _am I not the salvation you hoped for?_

“Why are you doing this?” Ellana prompted, sudden and curt, mostly to banish the distracting thoughts from her mind. Game. Ring. High Overseer.  _Do not stray._ “You told me to find you, then approached me here. Why? And don’t evade the question again,” she added dryly, tightening her grip on his shoulders.

He grinned, one of those ear-to-ear, borderline dangerous expressions she’d grown to dread. “Why wouldn’t I?” He pulled her closer still, clasping his hands together at the small of her back. They were falling out of time with the music, slowing down and closing the distance between them, but the other dancers seemed too absorbed in their own affairs to pay them any heed. The Outsider cocked his shaven head to the side, pale skin almost glowing under the lamplight. “Why would I not keep tabs on my Marked, my lively and interesting mortals?”

His hands burned against the bare skin of her back. Ellana struggled to focus on her task but his face was very close now, his breath hot at her ear. “You’re evading again,” she managed to reprimand, turning her head away from his to preserve her state of mind. Far down the street, she spotted a group of Overseers standing watch at an Abbey; oh, if they only knew what sort of heresy she was considering.

“Oh, am I?” He drawled, almost playfully, swaying them both from side to side in a languid rhythm. “I simply wanted, as I said before, to celebrate the Feast in the way that these humans do.”

Ellana raised her head again, nearly jumping when the edges of their masks clicked together. “That’s not how you said it before,” she observed as casually as she could, though their heated proximity made it all the more difficult.  _By the Void,_ she berated herself sternly, before registering the contextual ridiculousness of it.

“Did I?” His light tone didn’t match his eyes - flecks of obsidian set in the wolf’s empty sockets, unreadable and unknowable.

“Yes, you said,” Ellana paused to regulate her heartbeat, wildly embarrassed that she’d allowed the loss of inhibition - so characteristic of the Fugue Feast - to affect her in such a manner, yet oddly exhilarated by it, “you said you’d like to celebrate it with me.”

He laughed, a pleased chortle that resonated deep in her chest, and stated plainly, as if the answer were simple, “Indeed, you are one of my Marked.” Though his voice was even, his mouth twisted into a clever smirk.

“Then why not bother someone else, when I was  _clearly_  busy?” She prodded, pressing her palms to his chest to illustrate the needless contact. Their faces were too close now, separated by only a few inches of breath-warmed air.  _You can’t do this, not with him, not with so much to accomplish,_ her conscience raged in her mind, yet still she tilted her head to the side and brushed her lips against his; a feather-light friction, a test.

She pulled back at once, partially to gauge his reaction and partially to scope out escape routes.  _Did I just?_ Her mind blanked, then supplied incredulously,  _yes, you did._ Everyone spoke on the dangers of the Feast, the depersonalization, the detachment from logic and responsibility. Ellana never thought she would fall victim to its charms quite like this, however.

He caught her arm as she turned to flee, jerked her back with an urgency that surprised both of them, his mischievous smile interrupted when he pressed his mouth to hers - insistently, roughly,  _taking_  from her. Their masks clattered together in the sudden joining, bodies molded to one another, bending; his hands left her waist to wrap around her shoulders, encircling her like Void-haze.

But too soon it was over. When Ellana touched tentative fingers to his jawline, he backed away, held her at an arm’s length, face contorted into something between want and regret. “The crest belongs to the Graftons, in this very district, on Manor Street. Go,” he urged her in a low rasp, making brief and purposeful eye contact before vanishing in a coil of grasping black threads.

Ellana stepped back and into the looming shadow of an estate, allowing her body to work purely on instinct to scale the alley-side of it while her mind furiously tried to discover  _what just happened_. She dissected their interactions, turned them over and around; when had she succumbed to the lures of the Feast? When had  _he_? She ran her tongue over her bottom lip experimentally, finding it swollen and warm; would he taste of the sea, of salt and fathomless depths?

_Focus_. No, the game was over, the objective met. She cleared the divide between the roofs of two houses, landing with a muted scattering of gravel. Graftons. Manor Street. High Overseer. No time to think on the Outsider’s incomprehensible whims. So why were her feet retracing her steps? She sprinted not toward Manor Street but back across the square, leaping silently between buildings. It was, perhaps, a bad idea to let her body work on instinct.

Curiosity spurred her on nonetheless, drowning out the more rational options in a flood of possibility. She alighted on what was proving to be a very annoying balcony, smoothing the rumpled folds of her gown in a fruitless attempt to appear composed. She lingered for a moment outside the room, concentrating on the familiar pulse in her left hand that signified the presence of a shrine.  _No more evasion_.

Ellana approached the purple-draped table wordlessly, letting the click of her heels on the wood floor herald her arrival. The Outsider, of course, heeded her summons as he did with all of the Marked, though he greeted her with an irritated scowl instead of his usual fascination.

“I told you to  _go,_ ” he growled, climbing down from the shrine with a rigid and purposeful gait. He’d returned to his customary clothing, though the edges of the wolf mask had left imprints on the sides of his face.

Ellana raised her chin indignantly, holding her position before him. “You do not command me,” she replied, calm but firm, and hoped that he had no way of knowing how wildly out of control her heart was beating.  _Do you taste of the sea?_

“Ah, of course not.” His scowl became a grin, his stiff posture a mocking bow. He stepped to her side in a casual semi-circle, stopping behind her and resting his hands at her sides, “But you should not have returned, little Empress.”

“It’s the Fugue Feast,” she reminded him lightly, leaning back against his chest, “time outside of time. Void-walker,” she spat as an afterthought, an answer to his irksome nickname for her.

He chuckled lowly against her ear; she closed her eyes, suppressing a shiver. “Assassin,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss just below her ear, “killer,” his mouth trailed down her neck to her shoulder, fingers digging into her hips, “ _butcher_.”

“Dream-stealer,” she retorted in kind, her breath hitching when he nipped at her collarbone, then accused in a barely audible whisper, “figment.”

He spun her to face him at that, pushing her backward toward the shrine. He lifted the mask gently from her face and set it aside, then peeled off her silk gloves, brushing his lips against the Mark when it was revealed. “Let us hope I am not a figment,” he countered softly, unlatching the complex blade mechanism from her right arm, “let us hope I am real.”

Ellana watched him in silent awe, mostly because she was amazed at herself for allowing such intimacy; something about the deliberation of his movements told her that he was, too. She brought her hands to the sides of his face, a replication of the gesture he hadn’t allowed her earlier, gently tracing the line of his jaw.

It broke something in both of them.

She kissed him suddenly, more forcefully than she thought possible, snaking her arms around his neck again and silencing what remained of her rational thoughts. He cleared the shrine table with an impatient sweep of his arm, banishing several whale oil lamps directly into the Void, then lifted her up onto it. Ellana swept her tongue into his mouth eagerly, sighing against it to find her fantasies confirmed; he  _did_  taste of the sea, the immeasurable deep, of old power. But also of despair. He clung to her desperately, as a dying man clings to driftwood in the open ocean, and as her face became damp with salty tears, Ellana couldn’t say from whose eyes they fell.

 


End file.
